The Things We've Lost in the Fire
by asebi
Summary: Cooking is not the same as cooking. Or something like that. Written for Round 2 of Season 2 of the QLFC. No pairings.


Written for Round 2 of Season 2 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition for the Falmouth Falcons.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the character herein and do not make any money from this.

**PROMPTS:** (2) wonderful, (10) "Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend." ― Albert Camus, (14) "You don't tell me to relax!"

**Word Count:** ~1,000

**A/N:** I just wanted to write something about the days following the Final Battle...and this was the result. My team's person and verb are Molly, cooking. Originally, I was gonna make it about Harry and Ginny (gasp! what?!) but then this fic kinda just took off on its own. Title based on "Things We Lost in the Fire" by Bastille with no relation to the actual song lol.

* * *

.x.x.

* * *

Harry opens his eyes to near pitch blackness and almost panics. Almost. Then he remembers that Voldemort is gone and anyone stupid or insane enough to follow one lonely man's crusade is either dead or locked away.

The house is quiet, silent, still—well, mostly. He hears Ron's god-awful snoring next to him but after years of sharing a room, tent, space with the man, he hardly notices anymore. Harry turns his head to look out the little window. It's still dark out and there isn't much to be seen—no hills, no sky, no stars.

He lies in his borrowed bed. It isn't long before he hears what it is that woke him: someone is in the kitchen. His hands fly to the wand tucked beneath his pillow and he's up before he even realises it. He sits there listening. He gives a silent curse, rubbing his hands over his face before he slips out of the warmth and comfort offered by the simplicity of a bed.

He leaves the room, not bothering to wake his roommate. He moves through the house with ease aided by the familiarity of the surroundings, pausing only momentarily when he reaches the bottom of the stairs to try and gauge how big of a threat—if any—the intruder is. He follows the sounds into the kitchen and stops, relaxing a bit. A soft glow illuminates the space, warm and gentle. It burns only bright enough to see by but not bright enough to alert anyone else in the house. In the middle stands a single figure and Harry catches a glimpse of red. _Ginny_.

But it isn't. The person moves confidently through the kitchen. This is _her_ domain, _her_ space. _She_ is the one in command.

"Mrs Weasley?" Harry tries to say, but his voice cracks a little at the end and he isn't sure it comes out right.

The person spins around, eyes flashing, wand raised, and Harry tenses raising his own wand. They stare at each other for a moment before she finally smiles and lowers her wand.

"Harry, dear," she says, waving him into the kitchen.

Harry takes deep breaths, willing his pounding heart to calm down before he steps into the warmth of the kitchen. She pulls up a chair for him. Sets it by the counter.

"Tea?" she asks him. Harry nods, not quite trusting his voice at the moment. He watches as she busies herself around the tiny space before finally placing a cup in front of him. He is slightly surprised when she fixes herself a cup as well. They sip their teas together in silence.

Harry sees the first tendrils of sunlight breaking the horizon by the time Mrs Weasley puts her cup down and prepares for the day ahead.

He's seen her cook loads of times but he isn't sure if he's ever actually _seen_ her cook. It's one of those things he realises he takes for granted. Something that is and will always be. Or so he used to think. Maybe it's the naiveté of youth, though he feels really, really old.

It's the first time he watches her make breakfast beginning to end.

Harry knows how to cook; he does it all the time for the Dursleys. But until he's seen Mrs Weasley at it, he realizes he doesn't actually _know_ how to _cook_.

.x.x.

Harry remembers a time when breakfast at the Weasleys' is a chaotic affair, loud and colorful. Full of life and fun. Today, it is subdued. Not tense or worried or sad, just subdued. Mrs Weasley is still in the kitchen though the food is already on the table. Harry watches as Ron and Ginny eat their eggs. Neither says a word. George isn't there. No appetite, he said, but Harry saw Mrs Weasley leave a tray at his door earlier.

Only Percy is tense. He grips his fork until his knuckles are white though he hasn't taken a bite of his food. He relaxes only slightly when Mr Weasley places a hand on his shoulder as he passes, going to his seat at the table. And although it is still subdued, someone somewhere—Harry guesses Ron—asks for the bacon and the silence is broken.

Harry glances at Mrs Weasley, who is still in the kitchen. She isn't cooking, though. She's watching them, her family.

.x.x.

Dinner is almost a disaster—the complete opposite of breakfast. It seems everyone they know have dropped by, and Mrs Weasley has yet to leave the kitchen since before lunch. Harry wonders if she's even eaten. Her lips are pursed, her shoulders tense.

No one has touched their food.

"You don't tell me to relax!" she hisses at Bill when he asks her though he himself is as tense as she is. They all are.

He wonders if anyone else is listening for Fred when the disembodied voice starts speaking over the wireless.

No one feels like eating afterwards.

Harry manages to take a few bites before he gives up and follows Ron up to bed. He doesn't miss the way Mrs Weasley looks at the food and wonders what the Wizarding equivalent of a refrigerator is or if there even is one.

.x.x.

Something wakes him. Harry blinks at the dark ceiling above him. Absentmindedly, he thinks of the ceiling in the Great Hall but doesn't dwell on it or the ruins it is in now. He reaches for his wand but doesn't try to keep quiet as he makes his way downstairs. He has a feeling he knows what it was that woke him.

He yawns as he reaches the kitchen, and sure enough, Mrs Weasley is there. He stumbles in and takes the cup of tea she offers him. They stand in the glow of the magicked light and wait for dawn.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" she asks him when she starts breakfast.

He watches as she waves her hand at the kettle.

"Good, Mrs Weasley," he says because he is. Also maybe a bit tired. And hungry since he didn't really eat last night.

He watches for a few more moments in silence before he speaks up again. "Can I help you, Mrs Weasley?"

She pauses. There are bits of bacon floating in the air waiting for her command.

"Of course. That'd be wonderful, Harry."


End file.
